Living Daylights
by Kerttu
Summary: Learning to know Sands is dangerous but thrilling task. SandsEl. SemiTimeline verse fic.


Living daylights

By Kerttu

This could possibly fit in my Timeline verse somehow.

The title belongs to the band A-ha, the song released in July, 1987.

I thank vanillafluffy for beta and inspiring comments. I thank Maureen for sending me a picture of Antonio on the hood of a car.

Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was a man of extreme opposites.

El did not know when was Sands' birthday but everything he had ever learned about Gemini fit with the man. Or very out of whack Libra.

In one moment Sands was all smiles and clever wit and his body hard against the mariachi, demanding attention. Then he might turn into sudden anger as easily as into melting submission and drape him over the nearest thing to get what he wanted. Usually he wanted to get screwed even then when he raved with El and fought like a mad thing.

In fact El suspected that Sands secretly liked when the Mexican used the cuffs that had once belonged to Sands himself because each time El put them on Sands the American lost it quicker and louder than otherwise.

How they had become sexually so dependant from each other, El could not say. It had just somehow happened, Sands not allowing him to sleep when still half-crazy with the pain from his various wounds and high on morphine. To shut the whimpering up, El had held him close and Sands had suddenly reached downwards, weak as a kitten but just as determined to overcome a new obstacle.

El had tried to stop him but Sands had a good grip on him and to use force to pry his fingers away (which would have led to more physical struggling, that El already knew) would have meant to undo all the hard work the mariachi had put into nursing the American.

After all, if the ex-Agent wanted to show his gratitude by giving a hand-job, why not to let him? It wasn't as if El had a permanent partner, was it?

When Sands sensed that he had won the fight, he showed such tactility which left El breathless – he had literally panted, flat on his back, trousers barely undone - and then the man leaned close and kissed him.

It was not the best kiss he had received, not the most passionate one either and definitely not the sweetest. It was not even the first time a man had kissed him but there was something in the way Sands kissed that left El wanting more. Unbidden he had found himself holding Sands' head and kissing him back. He felt Sands smirk against his lips but he could not stop. He was addicted to the man now.

That had been the beginning – amidst the bandages and the smell of old blood still clinging on the skin of Sands – and now they were riding back towards the Guitartown, Sands sleeping on the backseat of the sports car he had bought on the second week he had been stationed in Culiacan.

Or at least he appeared to sleep; it was sort of difficult to tell after the loss of his eyes. He was not bitching about El's manner of driving, or complaining about the motion sickness, though, and El felt it safe to assume that the man was actually asleep. He glanced at the mirror.

Sands was curled up, halfway on the bag which held the American's belongings. He was using El's jacket as a pillow despite the fact he was always complaining about the buttons and chains getting tangled with his hair. However, he kept using it and it silently pleased El. Sands was also stubbornly wearing his shades, he wore them everywhere outside their bedroom and bath.

El sighed and shifted on the seat. He liked slightly roomier cars but it had been Sands' and he believed that the man did not want to leave it behind. Sands had commented something about trackable traces and they did need wheels. This way El did not have to buy or steal any. He leaned back to the seat and shifted the gear down. They were getting on the packed dirt. The word made him smile.

Sands wanted it usually dirty and hard and El had no qualms about giving it like that. He was still convinced that he did not really like the American very much but he had saved his life – thus Sands owed him big time - and then the guy had made him physically very satisfied… El's smile turned dark.

Sands had used him to kill people, now El was using him. If that deal seemed immoral so be it. Sands was so far from morality as one could possibly be. If he felt he had to earn his keep by whoring himself to El (not that El was against it anymore) it was fine with the mariachi.

He never asked how Sands had acquired all his bed-tango skills but he was good. The way the American's hands would be all over his body, how his hot lips would nibble every inch of him… Even the mere thought of it made El squirm on the seat. He took a breath to calm himself. He had to drive, after all.

"Thinking about me again?"

Sands had sat up and was leaning over the back of the passenger seat.

"Why do you think that?"

"You made that little gasping noise… just like when I take you deep into my throat." Sands chuckled when El shook audibly. "Just like now. So…" He reached out his hand and found El's hair. Sands scooted closer and whispered into the mariachi's ear: "Will you do anything about it?"

El suppressed a needy groan and swallowed convulsively; this American knew exactly what to say, when and how to say it. That's why he was such a good manipulator. "I hate you."

"I know." Sands curled El's hair around his fingers. He liked how that made him feel in command. "But it has never stopped you with me, right?"

"If you keep using that tone-"

"Yes?" Sands leaned in even closer and brushed his lips against El's neck, the man shuddered at the touch and Sands' mouth curled into a smug sneer. "Promise?"

Now El growled. He flicked his eyes to the road and a passing sign indicated a gas station ahead.

"When I pull over, you have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Sands' smirk widened. When El sounded so determined and frustrated, their encounter promised to be very intense – just the way Sands loved it.

The toilet must have been filthy – the smell was thick enough to hit one's head – but that did not stop El shoving Sands against a wall, face first, and wrenching his arms behind his back.

"You should not tease me!"

Sands only grinned at El's angry hiss and pushed against him. A good shag made him feel better and somehow also kept motion sickness at bay. Hence the ever present baiting of El – he needed their sex.

The cuffs snapped around Sands' wrists and he was suddenly so hard it hurt.

The mariachi was not gentle when he pulled Sands' jeans down (the recently healed gun shot wounds twinged when the waist band moved roughly passed them) but that only made Sands yowl like a cat in heat and buck backwards.

"You are a slut of a man."

"Yup. All spies of CIA are highly qualified in whoring themselves." Sands crooned hornily, when El slid his hands over his buttocks, a possessive grip.

"Mad gringo."

El's body pinned Sands to the wall, the cheep paint peeling and sticking to Sands' cheek, flippering against the lips of his moan-opened lips… El was just rubbing his prick against him, not even trying to penetrate him but it was almost violent motion, slapping his balls and making him squirm with pent rush.

El's hot hand closed around Sands' cock, palmed it and then began tugging in the same overdrive-rhythm his dick was stabbing at other man's cojones.

It took only few minutes of body heat and quick humping before they both came, El first with a strangled groan and his hand clamping down around Sands and then Sands with a high pleased keen. Their sperm mixed on the paint – not that it was even much visible in the grit-covered the wall.

Few moments of panting together were spent for calming down.

Sands' glasses were digging painfully into his face and the cuffs were beginning to hurt him as well but he liked being pinned by El. The solid weight of the mariachi grounded him in his darkness better than anything else. He would never admit that to the man, of course, but so it was. That El was willing to be manipulated into having sex with him (and it was pretty dirty nasty type of sex now) was an extra bonus. Sands sighed and shifted a little and El let him go, moved back, took his bound wrists, swore, when he noticed the red marks of the cuffs on Sands' thin wrists and freed the American quickly from them.

"Did I hurt you?"

Sands shrugged and turned slightly, rubbing his wrists. "Only the way I like it." He heard El sigh and imagined that the Mexican was feeling sorry for him. Pulling his pants up he snapped: "You know that I dig rough 'bang-them-up-against-the-wall' style, so do not fret."

"I am not using the cuffs anymore."

"I LIKE the cuffs, you dick wad!"

El's hand settled on his shoulder, guiding him towards the exit. "Not in this week, then."

"That's much better, mop-head."

They managed to reach a small motel peacefully enough (Sands only bitched couple of times about El's driving and the bumpy road that jostled him when he tried to nap again) but the peace was disrupted in the crack of dawn when Sands had one of his howling nightmares. Although El had given up sleeping with a gun under his pillow – it was too close to sometimes very unstable American's hands – Sands had still managed to get to one of his pistols and only the years of living on the live wire saved El when Sands began shooting randomly at his haunting phantoms. Fortunately no one else got hurt either, so El only left a wad of money to cover the damage and hauled Sands out and into the car.

After these incidents Sands was always subdued. Losing control like that was somehow shameful to him. El cast a look at his right – the American also wanted to ride in the passenger seat after shocks like that – and noticed that Sands was shaking and not sweating bullets but whole guns (an expression Sands had once dropped and which somehow stuck in El's mind as very appropriate in their line of existence). This nightmare must have been a very nasty one.

The Mexican reached out and dragged Sands to lean onto his shoulder. Sands shuddered and dug his fingers into El's forearm.

"Better?"

Sands only shivered and pressed his face to El's shoulder, glasses and all.

"That bad?"

"Just… shut up." There was even a tremor on Sands' voice and El did shut up. He knew that in this mental state there was no telling what Sands would do next. The American seemed to need some kind of physical contact, an anchor, but that connection could not be used for asking Sands to open up. So El only sighed and relaxed into the seat, driving the car one-handed.

The sun was rising and the inside of the car lightened up. Sands scrunched his nose and turned his head away when the first rays tickled his skin. "Fucking sun… doesn't light a thing but irritates the same."

"It is a beautiful morning."

El's voice rumbled, nicely close to Sands' ear. The cosiness shocked Sands enough to get up from El's lap where he had some point fallen and he grumbled: "To you, maybe." It sounded weak to him and he was sure that El's heard the weakness as well. He tensed but El was silent and Sands relaxed a little.

"We should drive on." There was a click and a loud metal-against-metal slide which indicated that El dragged the seat back into the right position.

"Why did we stop?"

"I had to rest and you were not helping: your snores were putting me to sleep."

"That, my dear Mexican murdering mariachi, is an oxymoron."

"Why?"

Sands shrugged and fished his sunglasses out of his pocket. He did not remember putting them there. El must have removed them when he was out. The fact that he had not woken during that made Sands shudder. When had he begun to trust the Mexican so much that his fingers so close to the gaping cavities of his former American eyes did not wake him up? He put the eye ware on and felt instantly better, covered from the glaring world. Sands turned to El and flashed a smirk: "Because snoring is by its very nature an intrusive sound. You cannot think it is… soothing or something."

"Yours is."

Sands snorted.

"Yes, it is." El's fingers pushed Sands' hair behind his ear although he flinched at the sudden touch. "It is familiar and shows that you are deeply asleep. When you grow silent, then I worry." The mariachi's fingers were still in Sands' hair and he felt a warm tingle begin from that touch which enveloped Sands slowly all over. He was horny again.

El's presence moved closer and his breath puffed over Sands' jaw line: "What are you thinking?"

Sands' smirk widened. "Have I not told you that in my case that question can get you killed?"

"I am living dangerously anyway." The truth sounded like a line of cheap seduction but Sands was easy.

"That you are…" The sun warmed his face through the windshield and El was so close… Sands turned and found El's mouth by a sheer luck. Or was it something that he already depended on? That thought was not a calming one but when El complied, Sands stopped thinking and only felt. Nothing exorcised bad dreams better than a pair of hot lips pushing him into the seat and melting his bones.

They had to stop to gulp some air.

"Mmm." Somehow Sands felt like being indulgent. Perhaps it was the warmth of the morning sun heating the car or the man warming him. He rarely did sweet and slow but today… He slipped the glasses off, threw them behind him to the back seat and allowed El to see all of him. "Well?"

A cold shadow eclipsed the heat of the sun and then the heat of the solid male body pinned him to the seat.

Whatever El was, no one could him call him lukewarm in the matters of lust. Before Sands could draw a breath, El had his shirt open and was mapping his chest. It made Sands squirm with delight but soon enough the inside of the car seemed too small. When they had both banged their elbows and heads against various sides of the car, El huffed and threw a door open.

The crisp morning air made Sands' skin break out in goose pumps. He sat up, shrugging his shirt back on: "What are you…?"

By that time El had already opened the door on the American's side and the mariachi hauled him out. For a moment Sands felt completely disorientated, then El grabbed him and lifted him to sit on the hood of the car. The metal under his hands was hot already.

"More room," El growled and covered him again, pushing Sands flat on the heated metal and cool glass.

"I assume… that we are… on the road." The American panted between the moments when he was melted with caresses.

"Not quite, but not far."

Sands snorted with amusement. "Never knew you liked audience."

"I am a performer." El did not miss a beat while slipping Sands' jeans off.

"Then lets give a good show. I want to hear an applause."

The next moment Sands gasped and smothered a scream into El's shirt-covered shoulder when the man impaled him with one single swift thrust. He did not have time to uncurl himself because the Mexican began to move and the rhythm flung Sands at once to the orbit of sharp pleasure that had him moaning and clawing at the body holding him down.

So, it was not the slow and sweet Sands had thought El wanted; no, this was far better. He clung onto the mariachi, taking the punishing ride and wailing in abandon when El hit his prostrate over and over and over again. It was electrocuting Sands and short-circuiting his brain but he did not care.

With a sex like this, who cared of survival?

The orgasm flashed through him like a lightning and he realised that he had screamed his throat sore when he became into the world again inside the sweaty embrace.

"Huuuh…" was all he could say. El kissed his forehead and withdrew. That made him shudder with pain but he clamped his mouth shut and tightened his arms around El. He could never ask the man to hold him but he could always try to stop El from moving away. And El took the hint and held him close, not crushing but tight and secure.

The wind picked up and Sands shivered, his skin still slick with perspiration. He sighed and released El slowly. "Not wanting to break the mood but your butt must be getting a sunburn."

El chuckled and slid off the car pulling him upright as well. Sands' backside throbbed sharply but he ignored it. He could always lounge in the backseat.

The chains on the mariachi pants jingled and El asked with an audible smile in his voice: "So how was the performance?"

"You positively killed the audience." Sands pulled his trousers up but forewent zipping them.

El's arms circled his waist: "How about owning it?"

"Well… you captured it, that's for sure." Sands allowed one more kiss and then pushed away. He wasn't very steady on his feet but he found the door handle and pulled it open. "Now the audience wants a break."

El made a murmur of agreement and went to clean the car of the traces of their mutual pleasure. It would not do to roll into his hometown with cum stains on the hood. The Padre would most likely come to greet him and the carnal evidence on the car… El shrugged and wiped the hood carefully clean.

When he sat back onto the driver's seat, Sands had curled up again on the backseat but this time the glasses were off and he looked utterly wiped out but pleased. El smiled and started the car.

Sands stirred, shifted and murmured: "Still thinking about me?"

"Still."

The smile that graced Sands' face was for once not marred with anything but pleasure. "Good. I like the feeling of being well fucked." Then he turned his back to the sun and relaxed.

El shook his head, grinning and put the machine into gear. The silence would soon end – Sands could not change what he was as El could not change his infamous fame - but the mariachi enjoyed the languid feeling now. He looked left and right and rolled the car back onto the dirt road. Their trek together was coming to its end and the snores coming from the backseat were the perfect background for it right now. El did not believe that Sands could ever be completely whole again (it was physically impossible anyway) but he hoped that the man could be whole enough to function. And there was no better place to try to achieve that goal than the sleepy Guitartown. It could perhaps balance with its solidity the extremes of Sands.


End file.
